


Sentimental

by orphan_account



Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Genre: Backstory, Character Study, Family Drama, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Pre-Canon, Self-Indulgent, Sibling Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-28
Updated: 2015-04-28
Packaged: 2018-03-26 06:16:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3840196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's always been inscrutable to her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sentimental

She doesn't know who or what she's expecting to find when she opens the door of her flat a little after nine on a Friday night, but her little brother is _not_ it. Oh dear.  
  
“You look like a little lost waif,” she tells him, because it's true; he's like something straight out of a Dickens novel, shivering in his soaked coat with a suitcase at his feet.  
  
“You really shouldn't open the door like that, especially at this hour.”  
  
“I've been living on my own for five years, but thank you for your concern. Shouldn't you be in _Scotland_?”  
  
“Could we perhaps take this inside?”  
  
She allows him to squelch into her hallway, trailing mud and rainwater in his wake.  
  
“Tea?” she offers, though she has the strong urge to just go straight for the spirits. God only knows what he's done now, but the circumstances and her eighteen years of experience being his sister suggest it cannot be anything good.  
  
“Please.”  
  
She puts the kettle on before attempting to tidy her living room table, which is barely visible under her books and lesson notes and the litter and random knick-knacks which always mysteriously pile up over a busy week.  
  
“I apologise for the mess, I wasn't expecting company,” she tells him pointedly.  
  
“I know,” Harry says. He doesn't elaborate, not yet.  
  
They sit down and have tea first, because it's in their genes to do so before deeply awkward, potentially life-changing conversations. She has no idea what he's thinking; he's always been inscrutable to her. Harry has their father's stony exterior but his heart is all Mum; warm, wild and dangerously unpredictable.  
  
“Did you get the present I sent you?”  
  
“Yes, thank you, it was very thoughtful of you,” he says graciously.  
  
She sent him a few books she thought he might be interested in, but the sad truth of the matter is, they meet all of four or five times a year and she hasn't the faintest what he's been up to lately.  
  
“So what brings you to London?”  
  
He takes his sweet time replying, and catches her mid-sip when he finally does.  
  
“I went to the AFCO a few days ago. I'm joining the Royal Marines. And no, not as an officer.”  
  
It's only due to several years worth of etiquette lessons that she doesn't end up spitting her tea all over the both of them.  
  
“It's pretty much a done deal already,” Harry goes on calmly, “so please do refrain from trying to convince me to change my mind.”  
  
“And I suppose the rather fetching black eye you're sporting wouldn't have anything to do with Father's reaction.”  
  
He just smiles and shrugs a bit at that, like it's not a big deal, like he's even a bit proud of still being able to get a rise out of the old man after all these years.  
  
She carefully places her cup on the table and hides her face in her hands.  
  
“He disinherited you, didn't he?”  
  
“Naturally.”  
  
“Dear Lord, Harry, you don't do anything by halves, do you?”  
  
“On the bright side, you're looking to inherit a fortune.”  
  
“I was _always_ going to inherit a bloody fortune, you little twat,” she says in what could still pass as an indoor voice. Maybe. By a very loose definition of the term. “Couldn't this wait until after school? Until after _college_ , even?”  
  
“By which you mean, couldn't I sit around on my arse for at least another four months doing absolutely nothing productive with my time after several years of doing just that? Actually, no, I couldn't.”  
  
“I hope you know I could strangle you with my bare hands.”  
  
“But that would be unladylike,” he points out mock-seriously, quirking a fine dark eyebrow at her.  
  
God, this stupid, wonderful, _stupid_ boy is going to be the death of her.  
  
“I _need_ to do this,” he says, low and intent, all traces of humour gone from his voice. He leans forward and takes her hands in both of his, and it's startling to realize they are a _man's_ hands: strong, large, capable. “I'm not asking you to share my priorities in life or even to understand them, just like how I won't even pretend to understand your desire to spend the rest of your days translating Greek poetry. All I'm asking is; please _accept_ that this is something I _need_ to do.”  
  
“I can't help but feel like you're making a terrible mistake born out of sentiment.”  
  
“Oh, Alice.” He shakes his head fondly and lifts her hands to his lips. It feels strange; she could probably count on one hand all the times they've kissed each other over the years. It's just not how they were brought up. “What else is there worth living and dying for _but_ sentiment?”  
  
And what could she possibly say to that? She looks— _really_ looks—at her little brother: not so little anymore, really, regal in bearing, his shaggy hair and ratty jeans obviously just another stage in his lifelong project of irritating the piss out of their father.  
  
“You will write and call, and you will visit when you have leave,” she tells him as steadily as she knows how.  
  
“Of course. Thank you.”  
  
She snorts. “For what? You come here, you drop this in my lap, what the bloody _hell_ am I supposed to do with you?”  
  
“You've done everything you could,” he says with a rueful little smile, and she has this terrible feeling he's just being gracious again, for _her_ sake. “But if I could have your settee for the weekend, I'd be most grateful.”


End file.
